“Sounds dubious.” Grimshaw was starting to regret asking questions. He had managed to avoid being dragged into politics thus far and hoped to keep it that way.
“You might recall it was on the news for weeks. His ship’s core overloaded close to the Sentinel, vaporizing everything within miles, closing down three main shipways and several docks.”
The story vaguely resonated with something in Grimshaw’s head. “That does ring a bell.”
“The official story is that a technical malfunction caused the explosion.” Eline purred with what Grimshaw had come to understand was disgust. “But the official story is questionable. It’s also one reason the cross-racial project has been kept top-secret.”
“Maybe this technology belongs to the race that’s pursuing us.” A tremor rolled through the bulkheads as though in answer. “Maybe they want it back.”
“I don’t think so.” Eline sighed. “The schematics were written in a complex combination of ancient texts that only Shanti high-priests and Terran linguistic experts could decipher collectively. Whoever drew up the plans wanted our people to work together, and that’s exactly what happened. Our experts pooled resources and built the ship.”
“They completed the project?” Grimshaw almost fell into a wall as the Bakura rattled again.
“More or less, but it has never been fully tested.” Eline glanced about to make sure they were still alone. “A week ago, someone leaked information, and the project was put on lock-down. We don’t know who leaked the data or how, but we intercepted the signal before it reached the Galactic Council. If the Sentinel ever found out, it would mean bad news for a lot of people.”
“Your mission is to investigate the leak?” Grimshaw rounded a bend and picked up pace as the hangar entrance came into view.
“And to shut the project down for good. We’ve been sent to retrieve the ship and leave no record of it. Colony 115 was chosen due to its remote location in the Fringe. It was easier to keep the operation hidden from the other races in the Galactic Alliance that way, or so we thought.”
Grimshaw clung to a rail as the final section of the corridor suddenly became a steep incline. “I doubt the Tal’ri would be happy,” he groaned as the gravity field leveled off again.
“Relations between the eight races are already unraveling at the seams.” Eline purred angrily. “If they learn about the prototype, it will throw the galaxy into utter chaos.”
They reached the hangar doors and Grimshaw pulled Eline’s shoulder before she entered. “Why are you telling me all of this? For all you know, I could be a spy.”
The Aegis looked at Grimshaw with a smile: the first he’d received from her, or any Shanti. “You are no spy, Commander. Shanti can smell honor.” She leaned in and sniffed his neck. “You’re a strange man, but you are also one of the few truly honorable Terrans I have met. Besides,” she gestured to the Bakura. “Chances are we’ll be dead soon anyway.” She laughed, the sound somehow warm and comforting, despite the heaving ship.
Things still didn’t add up. “I thought the Aegi served the Tal’ri and the Galactic Council?”
“A common misunderstanding. Being a Shanti priestess, Minister Straiya acts as our Overseer. However, no one rules the Aegi. The Tal’ri may have a disproportionate say in how we operate, as they do in everything, but for the most part, we self-regulate. The Aegi first commandment is to protect all sentient life within the realms of the Galactic Alliance, regardless of origin. That will not change on a Tal’ri whim.”
“Whoever possesses this technology could shift the balance of power in the Alliance.” Grimshaw found the idea troubling, even if the technology was in human and Shanti hands.
“Which is why no one can know about it until the time is right. Otherwise, we will have a war on our hands.”
The walkway rocked violently and threw them against the hangar doors. The panel slid open and Eline landed on him in the threshold.
“Looks like we’ve already got a war on our hands,” Grimshaw said.
Eline purred at that as she climbed to her feet and helped Grimshaw up. They entered the drop-ship hangar where several cadets who had lagged behind stuffed their bodies into TEKs.
“Get a move on, cadets,” Grimshaw called above the groaning hangar. “These boats will drop with or without you.”
A row of four Stork-V3 drop-ships lined one hangar wall, each with capacity for fifty passengers plus a crew of four. The vessels were crude: a rectangular fuselage with reinforced armor, short wings, and several large landing thrusters. The cockpits doubled as detachable armored personnel carriers, while the bulk of the ship was used as a command post or ground cover. Stork-V3s were heavy, and once they hit the surface, they usually stayed there.
Grimshaw and Eline approached Stork Charlie where a maintenance crew ran their final checks.
“How are we doing?” Grimshaw asked the crew lead.
“Three Storks ready to drop, Commander. This one will lock as soon as you’re on board.” The officer tapped Stork Charlie’s plated armor. “Flight crew are waiting for you.”
“We’ll arm and board right away.”
She nodded before returning to her team, barking orders.
Eline followed Grimshaw to a row of lockers next to the Stork. He quickly stood into his tactical exoframe kit and equipped his weapons.
The Shanti didn’t appear impressed by his equipment and wasn’t subtle about it either.
“Not the best TEK in the galaxy,” he tapped his suit’s breastplate. “But it’s the best one can hope for on a Fleet training vessel. We’re lucky we have live rounds. The Confederation Fleet Health and Safety Executive like to make things difficult for us.”
Eline spat on the ground. “Health and safety on a military vessel? The more I learn about you Terrans, the more I’m surprised that you haven’t already gone extinct.”
“You have no idea.” Grimshaw fastened the final shoulder clasp and flashed Eline a smile. A tremor tore through the hangar as he fitted the retractable helmet collar. He activated the device, and a protective shell wrapped around his head.
Something above shrieked like two fighting tomcats.
Grimshaw looked up as a twisted support beam came crashing down.
7
Old Locker
Randai glanced over the rail to the litter-ridden streets of Bometown below and noticed another one of Mr. Darcy’s men doing a poor job of hiding in the shadows of a dilapidated building across the road. A group of scraggy children played phaseball in the street and scattered every time a ground vehicle roared by.
“Get a move on,” Brutus growled at his shoulder.
“I’m going. I’m going.” Randai swiped his hand across the print-reader, and his apartment door began to lift but screeched to a stop halfway.
“Keep meaning to get that fixed.” He pounded the door with his fist, and it disappeared into the ceiling.
The Varg crouched through the entrance, his bony head scraping the ceiling. Randai didn’t understand why the fool couldn't wait outside. It wasn’t as if the apartment led anywhere. Even if it did, there was nowhere for him to run or hide in a town ruled by the White Dragons clan, and it wasn’t as if he could move into Black Robe or Abundus territory. The Black Robes were insane, and he had a lot of bad history with the Abundus crew.
Randai’s place was pretty much two prison cells welded together. Basic furniture had been built into the wall interiors to make use of what little space was available. Apart from semi-decayed left-overs stinking the place up and a scattering of empty bottles, all surfaces were clear of clutter. Randai had gambled or drank everything he had, apart from what Brutus was there to collect on behalf of Mr. Darcy.
Randai crossed into the bedroom, pressed a button on the wall, and lights flared to life. Another button lifted the bed from the floor. The actuators hummed as it slowly rose to knee-height, and he pulled open a drawer on the side of the bed revealing the item in question, a knife, and a gun.
His hand hovered over the blaster, and his eyes flicked between the weapon and the Varg warrior, but he decided against using it. In his inebriated state, he’d just as likely kill himself as hurt Brutus. Even if he did manage to overcome the warrior—and it was a big if given the Varg’s heavy TEK—Randai wasn’t sure how many snakes waited for him in the shadows outside. Beyond that, there was nowhere he could go where he wouldn’t draw trouble.
That’s what I get for thinking I could fake death and ride out the rest of my life down in this shit hole. Even if those in the Overways he once called friends knew Randai was actually alive, they likely wouldn’t remember him anyway. Regaining access to the Overways was one solution to his problems, but a pass to the upper levels required a significant investment and he was broke.
That brought him full circle. Saving that much money would take years, and with Mr. Darcy on his heels, it would be next to impossible. The White Dragons leader didn’t take too kindly to those who attacked his men either. Randai had seen what happened to those stupid enough to commit such foolishness, and it wasn’t pretty.
Brutus watched him intently, half hunched over under a roof barely tall enough for a human, let alone a seven-foot Varg. Randai reached for the black fabric bag that held the artifact and gave the gun one final glance. Was it even loaded? The safety was off.
His fingers twitched, but one more look at Brutus made up his mind and he lifted the cloth package instead.
Randai offered it to the beast, who snapped it away and tucked it into his TEK’s belt. The Varg drew a blade and pointed the tip at Randai’s forehead.
“Whoa!” Randai threw his hands forward in protest. “Hold on a second. I gave you what you wanted.”
“Gave me what Mr. Darcy wanted. I want your head. To restore honor.”
“Honor?”
“Last night. You mocked me. People now question my honor.”
“There’s honor in taking an unarmed man’s head?”
“Spill blood. Much honor,” Brutus said, stepping closer and forcing Randai up against a wall. A muscular arm whipped forward with incredible speed.
Randai ducked narrowly avoiding a fatal neck wound. He pushed himself off the wall and aimed a chop at the giant’s chin—one of a Varg’s few pressure points.
Brutus turned his head at the last second and Randai’s knuckles glanced off bony armor.
He choked down a scream as the thug’s blade swept toward him again. He dodged it by a hair’s breadth and only because the warrior was inhibited by a lack of space. The lumbering Varg’s shoulders scraped against the walls.
Randai launched at another pressure point with his elbow, and to his surprise, he landed the blow, knocking the knife from the beast’s hand. Before he could draw back, Brutus’s other hand caught his skull like a vice.
The headache Randai had, less than an hour before, paled in comparison to the monster’s weight bearing down on him.
Brutus forced him to his knees, and Randai thought his brains were going to burst out of his ears. He caught a glimpse of the Varg’s glimmering blade on the dirty floor and reached out for it with his boot. He misjudged the distance and kicked it into the corner. Randai wished he’d listened to his gut and used the blaster when he’d had the chance.
The Varg squeezed harder, and something warm poured out of Randai’s nose.
In desperation, he clawed at the beast’s hands, but instead of alleviating the pressure it only made things worse as the warrior bore down harder still.
Before his skull caved, Brutus flung Randai against the wall like he was no more than a rag, and he crumbled in a heap next to the bed, chest heaving. It was just his luck that he didn’t land on the side with the drawer.
Randai rolled onto his stomach, and something hard inside his jacket jabbed at him: possibly something from his drunken escapades.
Something I can use as a weapon?
Brutus came after Randai just as his hand pulled a syringe full of a familiar blue liquid from his coat.
The Varg retrieved his knife and lifted Randai by the collar, his feet dangling inches above the floor. As the warrior drew his blade for a strike, Randai drove the syringe between two bony plates under the creature’s jaw and pushed the injection button.
Brutus let out a gruesome laugh, and Randai feared the worst, eyeing the glint on the tip of the knife.
“Useless Terran,” the Varg growled.
Brutus stumbled sideways, dropping Randai. The Varg’s laugh became a choking sound, and the warrior broke into a coughing fit. He thrashed about the room, forcing Randai to sidestep a wild swing. The warrior glanced off him, fell over the bed, and crashed into the corner where he twitched before quietly curling into a tight ball. Within seconds, the Varg stopped breathing.
Randai approached cautiously and prodded with the tip of his boot. Nothing happened.
I’ll have to thank Doctor Kira for that later.
He retrieved his weapons from the bed-drawer and stowed them inside his jacket. He’d be needing them after all.
Randai swiped his hand, and the front door got jammed halfway again. He was about to punch it out of habit when he noticed a set of legs in the gap at the bottom.
He blasted the thug’s feet out from under him and slammed a fist into the door, snapping it out of sight. The White Dragons suit squirming on the ground outside was a much younger Varg, perhaps a teenager. He lay on his back, clutching his shins as he screamed. The warrior reached out for his gun, but Randai kicked it over the walkway onto the street far below. He slammed the thug’s head against the metal rail, knocking him unconscious.
Something fell out of the boy’s coat. Randai picked up the compad and tucked it away in his jacket. “Best you stay out of this one, kid. Someone will be along to patch you up soon.” He dragged the young Varg into the apartment and locked him inside with his colleague.
Movement in a window across the street caught his attention. Randai thought he saw someone watching him, but when he looked back whoever it was had gone.
Probably gone to get help. Better make like a shepherd. Randai sped down the steps and turned left into a web of alleyways. He navigated through the network randomly to lose anyone who may have followed him.
After sprinting for several minutes, he leaned against a garbage disposal system, fighting for breath and cursing himself for being in such bad shape. A maintenance drone across the alley looked at him indifferently before returning to its tasks.
There was no going back to his apartment after that, not unless he wanted to die. He suddenly remembered the cloth package in the Varg’s belt and punched the dumpster. His body wasn’t the only thing that had dulled over the years. The cocktail of drugs still in his system didn’t help either.
A tightness pulled at his ribs, and on investigating, he winced. Randai lifted his shirt and found blood pouring from a wound in his side. It seemed heavy, but he figured bleeding always looked worse than it was. Even still, it wasn’t a risk he could afford to take.
Something vibrated in his coat pocket, and he remembered the compad the younger Varg dropped outside his apartment.
Randai bypassed the device’s security and browsed through the messages. He found an interesting passage about a planned assassination. The kid was scheduled to take an incredibly long shot in a few days. Randai winced as he chuckled. The kid was barely old enough to hold a gun let alone hit a target from over two miles away.
Randai remembered a time when he could have pulled off that kind of shot but only with the help of his implant, which had since been deactivated in case the Sentinel Intelligence Agency ever tried to track him down. A brush with the SIA would be an encounter Randai wouldn’t walk away from.
It gave him an idea. Randai didn’t have the gear he needed, at least not in Bometown. Though he preferred not to, it meant paying the Abundustown docks in District Nineteen a visit.
Randai had all but forgotten about the locker he’d stowed away in the old warehouse out that way. He n
ever had any intentions of going back for his gear, and half wished he’d tossed the key so he never could.
The locker contained the final vestiges of his old life, the life Randai had tried to burn from his mind with alcohol and whatever else he could get his hands on. For a reason Randai no longer recalled, he had stored it away instead of dumping it. Maybe he knew such a day would come. Some part of him must have known that returning to the Underways had been a bad idea and that it wouldn’t pan out as expected.
Back then, Randai imagined returning to the good old days when he hung out with the other street rats. They didn’t have to worry about things like debt, or health, or women back then. Randai figured that returning to the Underways would be the perfect escape from the never-ending demands of the Overways…not to mention those who wished him dead. He thought he could return to being just like that maintenance droid across the alley: going day by day without a care in the world.
But it had turned out to be nothing more than a childish dream. Life in the Underways turned out to be nothing like the days of yore. All of his old friends had either moved on or died, and before Randai knew it, his life had spiraled into chaos.
He wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of his nose and held his pounding head until his breathing came under control. Sick hit the back of his throat, and he fought it down. The locker in District Nineteen was his best bet, but he had to address the wound first.
As much as Randai hated to admit it, Doctor Kira was his only option on that front. The woman frustrated the hell out of him: the cocky look she got in her eyes, the condescending way she spoke to him, the fact that she cared.
When Randai considered it, she was the only person he really knew in the Underways. Many drinking and gambling partners had come and gone, but Kira was a constant, and she always helped him out, however much he complained about it. Recent events meant moving on and the possibility of never seeing her again. To Randai’s surprise, the thought saddened him, but there was nothing he could do about it.
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